Journal
A dusty old dog-earred leatherbound book.
Shi's journal, most often kept tucked into the very bottom of her rucksack with the crumbs that make permanent residence there, is ages old, picked up for a pittance in some far-off port, and has seen many a foreign locale in its day. A much younger stub of a pencil protrudes, eraser-out, from where it's been stashed in the tiny hiding hole the binding makes when the book is open, a slew of chew marks decorating it's yellow surface. The book itself looks as though it's teetering on the edge of disintegrating under the weight of it's own existance, but surprisingly it's been like this for years. She's a tough old broad, and has been Shi's only companion for many a lonely ocean-crossing, with nothing but a tiny kerosene lamp to warm the two of them. Shi's writing, once sparse, has become more prolific now that her life has taken a lull, though who knows how long that will last. To open the pages of this book is to meet with a fantastically mispelled load of chicken-scratch, and a cadre of faded smells - spices, gasoline, and night air, among those less distinctive - the smells of a thousand far-off places the book may never see again.
This is the log and diary of Shiva Anahit Palkovar ( known in the business and now in her circle of friends as Shishi), a twenty-three year old balloon pilot and part-time black-market dealer of ancient artifacts. Generally homeless and broke.
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